Thoughts of a Veela
by Blue Roses
Summary: A rather strange story about the history of the Veelas. (now spellchecked)


Thoughts of a Veela  
  
By Blue Roses  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own the Harry Potter universe, or the veelas.  
  
I had the idea for this story when I re-read this passage from the goblet of fire:  
  
(about the veelas)'Harry saw that they didn't look remotely beautiful now. On the contrary, their faces were elongating into sharp, cruel-beaked bird heads, and long, scaly wings were bursting from their shoulders-  
"And that, boys" yelled Mr. Weasley over the tumult of the crowd below "is why you should never go for looks alone."'  
  
I wondered why the veelas were like that, and came up with this rather strange fic.  
  
***  
  
So what's it like being an amazingly beautiful, being that turns into a horrible monster on getting annoyed?  
  
Beauty is transient, that I know. Even the greatest beauties have moments when they look in the mirror and want to die. With us it is the same, but I think perhaps worse.  
  
Have you ever wondered why you don't see any male veelas? There are rumours, I know, that they have all of our tempers and none of our beauty, so keep themselves hidden from the world. That isn't true, of course.  
  
The truth is that there are no male veelas. We don't really deserve to be called a species, because we rely on other species to reproduce.  
  
Once there were male veelas, hundreds, perhaps thousands of years ago. We were strong. We grew claws to fight with, and a temper to match. We conquered others, and we fought amongst ourselves, but I believe we must have been happier then than we are now.  
  
  
Then, over a period of years, the males of our species began to die out. I do not know how it happened, veelas have never been much for science, but I know it did.  
  
We released there were fewer and fewer male veelas being born. We started to look for mates of other species, but none of them would want us. Who wanted a wife that bit and scratched, and had a temper to rival the fiercest dragons? A wife with claws?  
  
Less and less of us were born. The males began to die, of age and fights, and there were none to replace them. Soon there were few female veelas being born, since we had no one to mate with. Some were born to mixed couples, veelas and humans, or elves, but very few.  
  
This, however, is where Mother Nature made her entrance. You see, as less children were being born, the more beautiful they became. Evolution triumphed over the fact that we had no males, by giving us looks that every male, no matter what species, would want.  
  
The amount of us did not increase all that dramatically, since only the female children born were veelas. The males were always of the species of the father, and were usually farmed out to one of their own kind to be brought up. As much as we rely on them, we do not entirely trust other species. Perhaps it is the thought that we use them for our survival, that worries us, or perhaps it is simply kind calling to kind. We are happiest amongst ourselves, yet we cannot be if we want our race to survive.  
  
And so, we continue. Our youngest, and our most beautiful live amongst others, causing fights and even deaths over their looks, but surviving, and letting our race survive. No one ever sees the old veelas, either. We do not often marry, and our affairs are usually short, so we have few connections of any depth.   
  
No one wonders at our race, or asks us for our stories, they are content with what they see, and do not want the bitter truth to spoil the outward show. We are truly alone, for who ever had a real conversation with a beauty? They see us as portraits, beautiful, but most probably dumb, and the illusion is too enthralling for anyone think of breaking it.  
  
When we begin to fade (for veelas do not age, they fade) we return to our own company, here among the wilds where our ancestors fought for survival so many years ago. If they knew what was to come, would they have fought so hard? That is a question I ask myself over and over. Our dignity, what little there is left, is upheld only by our beauty, and men of real worth or intelligence can see through that.   
  
We survive, in a world that has become alien to us, hostile and unfriendly. Not that anyone else can see that. All they see is the facade. The fools do not know that the inside is bitter, rotten.   
  
Our tragedy is that, fools ourselves, we continue to deceive the world. Our looks are our protection, for who ever expects a person, or a thing of beauty to be unhappy? We stare at the world, and it stares back, seeing, but unwilling to look beyond the golden shell.  



End file.
